


take aim and reload

by ToAStranger



Series: Luster [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles heads off to Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take aim and reload

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Courting 'verse. Some time has passed after part 9, and they encourage Stiles to date people his age. He feels guilty even though he knows he shouldn't. He's also a little pissed/hurt, but he gets that they want him to have life experiences. It just feels like a slap in the face after their courtship has progressed so far. Maybe he goes to them to talk out his conflicting feelings, and it leads to hurt/comfort and a lot of touching bc they hated the situation too.

In the morning, he wakes with Peter’s mouth at his shoulder.  Soft, sweet, slow presses of lips along his skin, up his neck until he pauses just below Stiles’ ear.  Stiles lets out a soft sound, perhaps like a protest, and Peter laughs quietly.  He stops when Stiles elbows him in the side.

Deucalion snorts indelicately.  He props himself up on one elbow, takes Stiles’ hand in his free one, and brings it up to his mouth.  Stiles watches him with sleepy, heavy lidded eyes as Deucalion kisses the tips of his fingers.  His cheeks go a pretty pink color, and Deucalion smiles with sharp teeth.

“Good morning, love.” He says.

Stiles clears his throat.  “Hi.”

“Sleep well?” Peter asks, arm tightening around Stiles’ waist.

“Yeah.  Yes.” Stiles mutters.  “Did you?”

Peter hums, face pressed to the crook of Stiles’ neck.  “Very well, thank you.”

“It was a bit cramped,” Deucalion states, eyes on Peter, and Stiles’ lips thin.  “If you don’t mind me stating.”

“No one asked you to stay,” Peter replies, smile tight as he rests his chin at Stiles’ shoulder. 

When Deucalion’s eyes flare red, Stiles goes rigid.  “Um.”

“I thought we agreed not to bicker in front of him,” Deucalion says, jaw tight.

Stiles swallows.  “Uh, could we not--?”

“We’re not,” Peter replies and Stiles feels the distinct drag of claws over the very sensitive skin of his abdomen.  “Not yet, anyways.”

Stiles shivers.  “ _Hey_.”

They both pause.  Deucalion takes a slow, deep breath, focus falling to Stiles.  Still holding his hand, Deucalion laces their fingers loosely.  Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

Peter buries his face against Stiles’ neck again.  He stays there.  Lingers.  Just breathes.

“I’d ask if you guys wanted me to take a ruler out so you could measure them,” Stiles mutters, and Peter is already laughing against his shoulder.  “But we all know who would win that battle.”

Deucalion looks properly chided.  The kiss Peter places to Stiles’ temple is enough of a concession for Stiles.

“What time is it?” he asks instead.

“Four,” Deucalion says.  “The sun is barely rising.”

“Good,” Stiles breathes.  “I don’t have to kick you both out yet.”

Peter hums.  “Your father won’t be back until seven, right?”

Stiles nods.

Deucalion lets out a please sound, dipping close to catch Stiles’ mouth in a lazy kiss.  When it’s over, Stiles thinks his lips might be tingling.  He opens his eyes just in time to see Deucalion and Peter sharing a predatory look.

At least there’s one thing that they agree on.

He ends up moaning for them into the dawning morning.  All soft touches, languid kisses, slow rocking, rutting, rolling hips.  Stiles thinks that this is what heaven might feel like.  His toes curl when he comes.

Afterwards, he showers.  His entire body is like a livewire.  Tender, ready to burn up in a moment’s notice.  He’s still smiling when he pads downstairs, nothing but sweats and a cotton tee on, dopily content to find Peter and Deucalion waiting for him in the kitchen.

A fresh cup of coffee is placed in his hands by Peter—just the way he likes it.  Deucalion pulls out his chair and kisses his cheek when Stiles slides into place.  He eyes them both over the rim of his mug as they take their places across from him.  His brow goes up, and he swallows as he sets the coffee down.

“Okay,” Stiles mutters.  “What is it?”

They shares a look.  It is nothing like the one from an hour or so previous.  Weight settles in Stiles’ stomach, heavy and cold.

Maybe they can agree on more than one thing.

* * *

“It’s so fucking stupid, right?” Stiles huffs, arms crossing as he collapses back against the couch.

Scott shrugs, muttering something around a mouthful of popcorn.  As Lydia takes her spot next to Stiles, they share a wrinkled nose look.  Behind her hand, Allison muffles a laugh, sitting in the chair adjacent.

Scott blinks as he looks up.  “Whaff?”

“Chew, dude.”  Stiles says, patting his shoulder.

Scott grins, cheeks puffed out, and gives him a thumbs up.  Allison dissolves into giggles.

“So they just… told you to start dating?” Lydia asks, crossing her legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, gathering up a handful of popcorn out of the bowl in his lap.  “ _Other_ people.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, though?” Scott asks.  “I mean, you’re headed off to college in a week.”

“Yeah,” Allison nods.  “Besides, none of this was ever all that serious anyways, right?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Scott mocks with a playful little nudge to Stiles’ side.

“Right,” Stiles breathes out a short, nervous little laugh.

Lydia places a hand at his knee.  “This is a good thing, sweetie.  Because I guarantee you, there will be _plenty_ of options where we’re going.”

Stiles snorts and doesn’t comment further.

* * *

College is exactly what Stiles expects it to be.  Moving in is fun—hectic, but fun, with his dad fretting over every little thing before finally taking off—and Stiles shares a building with Lydia for the first three days until she decides to rush.

Stanford, as a whole, is beautiful.  Just a little out of town, in its own academic bubble.  Stiles has Roscoe, though.  It isn’t so much of a hassle to putter off campus, but Stiles is quick to learn the numbers he needs when he gets the late night munchies anyways. 

His roommate, J.T., is a red head from Canada there on a sports scholarship.  They instantly bond over videogames.  When they stay up too late playing League on that first Wednesday night, they make a pact to always split the cost of the sushi they end up ordering at three a.m.—because it is both delicious and expensive. 

Stiles texts Deucalion and Peter whenever he can.  At first, he feels silly.  Clingy.  When they respond with as much, if not more, frequency than he does, it settles his nerves somewhat.  They offer to come visit on the first long weekend Stiles has.  Stiles is quick to agree, and they promise to be there.

* * *

“Stiles,” Lydia says, hands on her hips, and he thinks she’s just about to start stomping her feet.  “It’s tradition.”

J.T. nods, lips blue as he sucks on a slurpee.  “She’s right, dude.  Totally is.”

“Whose side are you on?” Stiles asks.

“She scares me more than you do,” J.T. chirps, grin cheeky when he finally tears his eyes away from his computer screen.  “Sorry, man.”

“You suck,” Stiles grunts, then points a finger.  “Why aren’t you making him go too?”

Lydia spares J.T. a look before rolling her eyes.  “He’s not my friend, and I couldn’t care less about what he does.  No offense, J.T.”

“None taken,” he mutters with a two fingered salute.

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles grunts, kicking at J.T.’s chair, and frowning when J.T. doesn’t even wobble where he’s balanced precariously on two the back two legs.

“Hey, man.  I would if I could.”  J.T. tells him.  “But I’m a sophomore.”

Stiles tilts his head back and groans.

* * *

The tradition at Stanford is an old one—about one hundred and forty years old.  It takes place on the night of the first full moon of the school year, and all the Freshmen go out to the quad and get kissed by the Seniors.  Stiles thinks it’s a bit archaic, but at least it has evolved with the times because the first thing he notices is that he isn’t the only guy huddling in the herd of other Freshmen.

Lydia twines their fingers together and tugs him into the thick of it, headed for the center.  She mentions something about making them work for it, and Stiles smiles crookedly as he follows after her.  She is lovely when she is excited, and tonight she is positively giddy. 

Their shoes are long gone.  The grass is wet beneath their feet.  Somewhere, there is music, and Stiles spins Lydia until she laughs.  The moonlight is like a blessing, languishing above their heads and shining down upon them—big, bright, and heavy in the sky above.  At the edges of the lawn, the Seniors hover.

Midnight strikes, the clock tower chiming from where it is situated on the edge of the “circle of death,” just adjacent to the courtyard where they are gathered.  The Seniors descend on them and it is a mess of bodies colliding in brief lapses, in lingering clutches, and there is nothing but laughter, catcalls, and music. 

The first kiss Stiles gets is from a drunk frat boy.  There is paint on the guy’s face, and it smears against the corner of Stiles’ mouth.  It is chaste, but they both laugh and move on.

The next kiss is from Lydia’s “big sister” in _Pi Beta Phi_.  She’s bright and blonde, and cups Stiles’ face between her hands before pressing their mouths together for a long, sweet moment.  His hands hover at her waist even when she pulls back with a wicked little smile, the red of her lips barely disturbed, towering over him in a pair of strappy heels.  She places a neon green bracelet around his wrist, winking as she drifts off, and Stiles isn’t sure what it means until he spots her name— _Micaela_ —and a phone number.

More kisses come and more kisses go.  There are more than a few sloppy drunks.  At some point, Stiles and Lydia separate in the rush, in the thrill.  He has no doubt she is getting her fair share of kisses.  At the center, he looks about, sees a few people getting extra handsy, and his grin goes crooked as he tilts his head up.  The moon is still there, still hanging heavy, beautiful and burdened with her own weight. 

He knows the wolves are out.

It hits him while he’s standing there.  This will be the first of many full moons that he does not get to spend with his friends.  The first of many that he does not get to spend with Peter and Deucalion.  He wallows in a melancholy that swells up in him until he thinks his chest might break.

Then someone catches him around the waist and attempts to kiss the frown from his face.  They taste like cheap rum when Stiles throws himself into it, arms draping around broad shoulders, maybe just trying to forget for a second.  Their tongues meet and Stiles hums as the man holding him echoes it with a soft moan.  The hands on him are big, the mouth warm, and a few months back, Stiles might have thought it was the best thing to ever happen to him. 

There is a flash behind his eyelids.  They part, Stiles blinking over at where Lydia is standing, smiling behind the bubblegum pink case of her cellphone. 

Stiles gives her a dirty look, but before he can think about telling her to delete whatever picture she just took, the guy still flush with him presses a sweet, wet kiss to Stiles’ cheek.  The tips of Stiles’ ears go red, and he glances back up at a man with a strong jaw and brown eyes, and Stiles thinks he should be swooning.  The man plucks off the snapback on his own head, Greek letters stamped across it in gold, and places it onto Stiles’ head.

“Swing by sometime,” he says, grin wide, hesitating before pulling out of Stiles’ space.  “Ask for Marcus.”

Stiles watches him ebb back into the crowd.  He pulls the hat off his head, looking it over with a frown.  Lydia sidles up next to him, nudging into his side, and lifts a pristine brow.

“Shut up,” he mutters, cheeks still ruddy.

“I didn’t say anything,” she hums.

Stiles rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close.  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.  Let’s get out of here.  I want some midnight Denny’s.”

Lydia’s nose wrinkles, but she doesn’t protest.

* * *

His phone is ringing and it’s four a.m.  J.T. chucks a pillow at him.

“Dude,” he grumbles.  “Answer it or shut it off.”

Stiles gropes blindly for his cell phone.  He squints at the screen and purses his lips.  Swiping across with his thumb, he holds it to his ear as he clambers out of bed, mumbling an apology J.T.’s way. 

Padding out of the room, he shuts the door quietly behind himself.  The carpet is rough beneath his feet, and his toes flex over the floor. 

“Hello?” he mutters around a yawn.

“Good morning, Stiles.”  Peter says.

Stiles blinks a few times.  “Good morning.  Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course I do,” Peter scoffs.  “Long night?”

Stiles grunts, head thunking back against the dormitory door where he’s leaning.  “Something like that.”

Peter hums.  “Tell me about it.”

“Peter,” Stiles sighs, bones feeling heavy, joints aching.  “Why are you calling me at four in the morning?”

There is a pause.

“It’s good that you’re enjoying things,” Peter tells him, and Stiles rolls his eyes, biting his lips to keep from smiling.  “I was just calling to let you know that… you are missed.”

Stiles’ throat goes tight.  “I miss you guys too.”

The short hum Peter makes is sharp, and something in Stiles’ stomach twists.  “Goodnight, Stiles.  Sorry for waking you.”

He hangs up before Stiles gets the chance to protest.  Sighing, Stiles stares at his phone for a long moment before pulling up Facebook.  The first thing he sees are the pictures Lydia took that night.  Among them is the one of Marcus kissing him—or, perhaps, of him kissing Marcus. 

Stiles turns off the screen, jaw ticking.  For a moment, he thinks about calling Peter back.  Instead, he turns around to step back into his room.  To go to sleep.  The handle rattles but does not give.

Groping over himself, Stiles takes a second to check for a key before he realizes that he doesn’t even have any pockets.  His forehead meets the wood of the door with a resounding _thud_.

“Fuck.”

* * *

Their texts grow shorter and fewer.  Three days after Kiss Fest, Stiles gets one from Deucalion that makes him feel ill.

 _We’re happy you’ve found someone_.

* * *

Lydia purses her lips.  “Does it really matter?  What they might think?”

Lips thinning, Stiles’ gaze drops to his lap.

Lydia lets out a soft sound, reaching across the café table and resting her hand over his.  “Oh, _Stiles_.  Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It didn’t seem important,” Stiles shrugs a shoulder.

“Stiles,” she says, squeezing at his fingers until he meets her gaze again.  “Your feelings?  Are _always_ important.”

He gives her a wavering little smile.  She returns it with a tight lipped one of her own.

* * *

A long weekend hits.  Stiles is grateful for it.  The quarter system is quick paced; any break from it is a bit like getting to breathe for the first time in any number of minutes.  A necessary relief.

Deucalion and Peter do not visit.  There are flowers—sprigs of rosemary, thyme, lavender—delivered to his dorm.  They arrive with a leather bound text about the details of how herbs may be used in certain rituals of protection, cleansing, and healing.  There is a letter that smells like lemon accompanying it.  The apology is received but not well met.

The broken promise stings.

He keeps the bundles of herbs, stores and presses them between the yellowed pages of the book, but he burns the letter.  It offers a sense of valediction.  It is still not quite enough. 

He calls Lydia.

* * *

“What a pair of douchebags,” Micaela says, sprawled out over a large towel as she plucks open the back of her bikini, laying on her stomach in order to tan her back.

Lydia hums her agreement with the sentiment; the crash of oceans waves behind them nearly drowns the sound of it out.  “That’s what I said.”

“You didn’t say that,” Stiles snorts, rubbing sunscreen onto his chest.

Lydia shrugs.  “I thought it.”

Micaela laughs, lips just as red as the night Stiles met her.  She tosses blonde waves over a shoulder, situating herself carefully as she props a cheek against the palm of one of her hands.  Peering over the rim of her sunglasses at Stiles, she huffs out an amused little breath.

“It’s no wonder you didn’t call,” she says.  “You had your mind on bigger fish.”

Lydia falters from where she fixing her hair into a neat braid, blinking across Stiles to Micaela.  “You gave him a wrist band?”

“Babe, your friend is a catch.”  Micaela mutters, elbowing Stiles with a cheeky wink. 

“And _you_ didn’t call her?” Lydia whips a scolding look Stiles’ way.

The tips of Stiles’ ears go pink.  “Sorry?”

“No biggie,” Micaela beams.  “You aren’t the first, you won’t be the last.  You’re too cute to be sulking though.”

Cheeks puffing out, Stiles pulls a ball cap over his head and falls back against his towel.  His toes are buried in the sand at the bottom edge.  It is warm and it grounds him for a moment as the breeze skirts around them.  For the first time in the week and a half since Kiss Fest, Stiles feels like he isn’t drifting in confliction.

He’s tempted to get up and wade out into the cold crash of the Pacific.

Lydia nudges him where he is sprawled out between Micaela and her.  He smiles crookedly up at her, and she gives him a playful pinch to his arm before holding out an expectant hand.  He passes the sunscreen without a word. 

Micaela reaches up and flicks the rim of his hat.  “Where’d you get that?” she asks.

“ _Marcus_ gave it to him during Kiss Fest,” Lydia replies.

“ _What_?” Micaela perks up, resting carefully on her elbows, and whapping Stiles’ side with the back of a hand.  “Oh, _dude_.”

“What?” Stiles frowns.

Micaela grins.  “I’m officially inviting you to a party that’s going on tomorrow night.”

* * *

J.T. ditches him for some pretty little thing five minutes in.

The house is full and the bass is loud.  Stiles eyes his watch, wonders how long it will be until someone finally calls in a noise complaints, because it is ultimately an inevitability.  He gives it until two a.m. and wonders if he’ll even be there long enough to see it happen. 

There is a stamp on the back of his hand that Stiles rubs at briefly.  It’s a red little face that frowns up at him—something one of the fraternity brothers at the front door gave him when he walked in, after requesting to see his driver’s license.  When he asked J.T. about it, he’d shrugged and said that they were probably cracking down on underage drinking to keep from getting in trouble.

He’d laughed at the dubious looks Stiles had given him.

“I know.  Not what you’d expect.”  J.T. had said.  “Maybe it’s cuz you’re a dude.”

Stiles didn’t get a chance to ask much more because J.T. drifted off into a den of beer pong and booze.

Wading on his own from room to room, Stiles’ fingers twitch—palms itching to fidget.  He tucks his hands into his pockets to keep himself from tugging his phone out and finding an excuse to duck out before anything even really begins.

In the kitchen, a big sprawling room of tile and polished wood, Stiles finds Micaela cheering on two shirtless guys as they race to chug down what looks like an absurd amount of beer.  There is a round of shouts when the taller one sputters to a stop.  Stiles watches, grin halfcocked, as Micaela claps the winner on the back as he finishes.  She spots Stiles barely a second later and cajoles him over with a bright smile.  He returns the look before easing through the small crowd to get to her at the counter, taking the beer she offers with a quick nod.

“Where’s Lydia?” he asks over the noise.

“She’s finishing up an assignment,” Micaela tells him.

He frowns.  “It’s _Saturday_.”

“One of those bullshit due-by-midnight assignments,” Micaela explains.

Stiles lets out a soft sound of sympathy, sipping his beer.  It is mostly foam and too warm; his nose wrinkles.

“Aren’t you drinking?” he asks, clearing his throat.

She shakes her head.  “Nah.  I’m sober sister, tonight.”

“Sober sister?”

“Yep,” Micaela pops, pulling out a dinky old flip phone with _Pi Beta Phi_ decaled on the outside of it.  “I even have a special phone for if any drunk sisters are in need of assistance.”

Stiles laughs.  “Cute.”

“Thanks,” Micaela chirps, bouncing up onto her toes, then pats the shirtless guy still on her right with familiar hand.  “So, Stiles.  Have you met Marcus?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Stiles tries not to smile as the guy beams at him.  He’s all dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin; just as lovely as the first time Stiles saw him. 

“Briefly,” Stiles nods and offers up his hand.

Marcus lets the handshake linger.  “Too briefly.”

* * *

Waking up with someone holding him isn’t exactly as comforting as Stiles expected it to be.  He turns over in the small bed and frowns, wincing when Marcus stirs.

They don’t talk too much.  It isn’t quite awkward, but it is on the precipice of being that way.  Marcus doesn’t try to force any intimacy.  Stiles is thankful.

“Let me guess,” Marcus says, watching Stiles pull on his jeans.  “Hung up on an ex?”

“Something like that.”

“Shame,” Marcus sighs.  “But that doesn’t mean you need to be a stranger.”

Stiles smiles, small and crooked.  “Thanks.”

* * *

Lydia clucks her tongue at him, and the phone is warm against Stiles’ ear as he walks back to his building from the parking lot.  “So you _didn’t_ sleep with him?”

“I did but I didn’t,” Stiles edges, then sighs heavily.  “There was some heavy petting.”

“But?” Lydia prompts.

Stiles frowns, fidgeting with his keys, eyes on the pavement.  “Do you really even need to ask?”

“Not really,” Lydia says, pauses, and then changes the subject.  “Plans for today?”

“Nurse a headache.  Play COD with Scott and J.T.  Maybe catch up with some homework before Monday.”  Stiles mutters, and he looks up from the toes of his sneakers as he comes up on the entrance to his building, faltering when he sees Peter and Deucalion standing there waiting.  “Lydia?”

“Hm?”

“I’m gonna have to call you back,” he says.

“Stiles--?”

He hangs up before she can say anything. 

Deucalion’s expression is tight, but at least he’s smiling.  Peter looks as if he just smelled something sour.  Something in Stiles’ stomach turns over.

“Hello, Stiles.”  Deucalion says, almost too sweet, and Stiles shudders.

It’s Peter who takes a deep breath, sneer curled on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest.  “Have a good time last night?”

For a very short moment, Stiles feels fear.  It coils in him, sharp in his belly, but in the next moment it is anger.  His jaw goes tight, his expression dark.

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“Last night,” Peter says, slow like he’s speaking to a small child.  “With your new boyfriend.  Did you have a good time?”

Deucalion’s expression falls into a grimace.  He shifts from foot to foot, lips thin.  Stiles’ fingers flex at his sides. 

He glances between them, moment long and drawn too taut, before shaking his head.  “Oh, fuck no.  We are _not_ doing this.”

His feet are heavy against the pavement as he moves to stalk past them.  Peter catches him by the arm, grip a bit too tight, and Stiles is quick to shrug out of it. 

“Stiles—“ Deucalion tries, but Stiles’ tone is sharper.  Louder.

“Fuck this.  And fuck both of you.”  Stiles snaps and steps into their space, practically vibrating in his ire.  “I don’t know what kind of bullshit guilt trip you two are about to try and pull, but whatever it is?  It’s _not_ okay.”

“We came to surprise you,” Peter insists.  “We came to see you, and you were off with some little _frat boy_ —“

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles shouts, and while there aren’t a lot of people out and about, those nearby do glance their way.  “Yes, I was.  And I had a great time.  And I _only went_ because you two told me to.  Because you two _insisted_ that I date someone else.  Someone my own age.”

Peter’s mouth snaps shut.  At his side, Deucalion frowns.

“So I did.  I did _exactly_ what the two of you told me to do.”  Stiles adds, voice going breathy, going rushed—his cheeks flush and his eyes burning.  “And now you’re going to get mad at me?  Well, _fuck that_.”

Deucalion reaches out to him, and Stiles back away before they can even touch.  “Stiles, please—“

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Stiles seethes.  “If _this_ is the kind of bullshit you guys are going to pull, then we’re done here.”

Peter’s features crack.  “Stiles, that’s not what we want—“

“I don’t give a shit about what you want,” Stiles shakes his head.  “You _both_ have made me feel like crap for _weeks_ about a _kiss_.  I am _not_ going to be that person, Peter.  You don’t get to treat me like this.”

“Xenyck,” Deucalion says, brows pinched, features pleading.  “Please.”

“I’m not property,” Stiles mutters, offering up a feeble little shrug, back pedaling to the door to the dormitories.  “You both need to realize that.  Until then?  This is done.”

He does not let them beg.

The door shuts behind him with a resounding _click_.  He doesn’t look back.  Instead, he pulls his phone back out, dials his dad, and presses it to his ear.


End file.
